


Of American Traditions

by Funkspiel, Natecchi



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Realizations, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Everyone drinks a lot and thinks escalate from there, Gramander, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natecchi/pseuds/Natecchi
Summary: They drink, they kiss, they try to fuck…





	Of American Traditions

When young auror Mitchell asks her boss if he wants to join them, she doesn’t believe her ears when she hears the short yet clear response he gives her.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I said,” Graves fixes her with a glare, “I will gladly join your… welcoming party.”

She’s surprised, to say the least. When she goes back to the others to inform them - all of them in various states of getting dressed for the winter’s cold - they don’t believe her.

“You’re pulling our legs, there’s no way he said yes,” Adams says as he winds his scarf about his neck, but she sees the way his face falls when suddenly Graves enters the room, ready for the cold, and stiffly says, “So where are we going?”

“Oh, uh… we were thinking about that new little Irish pub on the c-corner, sir?”

“Perfect, I hear that they have excellent scotch,” and then Graves is sweeping over to the door, obviously expecting them to follow.

They stare for a whole minute after his retreating figure.

“Holy shit, you weren’t lying,” Adams says, wide-eyed.

“I wish we had bet on it, you’d owe me a drink,” Mitchell says lightly, smug, and can’t help but smile wider when Adams just blinks at her owlishly, still shocked.

“He’s just a human, you guys,” Tina says simply, as though pointing out something as obvious as the color of the sky. “He has just as much a right to blow off some steam as the rest of us.”

“I mean, of c-course, I just-”

They all stop as Graves appears back in the doorway, not quite glaring but more than just curious.

“The party _is_ now, right?”

“Y-yes, sir!” Tina says, snapping her case closed and rushing to join him, “I’m sure Newt’s already there, waiting for us. We should go.”

And with that he just gives a short little nod, walking with her out of the department and down the hall.

They settle up to apparate, and do so. In the blink of an eye, their small company is in front of the wizard-friendly pub, tucked away from prying No-Maj eyes. They enter and all sigh happily as the warmth of the place engulfs them.

Tina spots a ginger head, sticking out like a sore thumb.

“Newt!” She calls cheerfully and waves at him to come over. Scamander is suspiciously flushed when his eyes land on Graves.

“Oh, Mr. Graves, I didn’t know-” he begins, but gets cut off by a very noisy and excited Adams.

“Cut it, Scamander! The booze is waiting!”

Mitchell’s hand accidentally collides with the back of Adams’ head.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

Mitchell’s hand slips again, and everyone laughs at the face Adams pulls. Even Graves smiled a bit, which was quite the accomplishment.

“Alright, kids,” Graves says as if being the mother-hen of their group, and gestures at a table, “Sit here and be quiet.”

They groan in unison, but do like they were told. They squish together at a table, Newt unfortunate to sit beside Graves, whose mood is just as swingy as that of an expecting mother.

Graves does, however, rise to order them a round on the company tab, and the aurors can’t help but chirp - thrilled - at that. A waiter comes with a tray and a neat stack of hearty shots, and as they pass them around, they all blink when they realize one of those shots has ended up in front of Mr. Graves himself.

“You gonna knock one back with us, boss?” Adams asks, and Graves shrugs.

“Why should you have all the fun? Plus it’s tradition to welcome a new team member with a shot. Wouldn’t want to invite any more bad luck into our lives, would we? Scamander has enough bad luck for the lot of us.”

“Hey!” Newt says, and it might just be the first thing he’s said so far that evening that wasn’t simply a greeting. “I resent that, I’m not unlucky!”

“Oh really? Well what about losing your Niffler just hours after getting into New York?” Prods one auror.

“Or getting caught by _Goldstein_ ,” says another, who gets a healthy jab of elbow to the ribs for that. “Ow, hey!”

“Watch yourself, O’Brien,” Goldstein mutters, but the table at large can tell it's all in good fun.

“Or falling into the general mess things had become as a whole,” Graves says. “One day on American soil and you were already head first in a national conspiracy of international proportions.”

Newt rubs at the back of his neck shyly and chuckles.

“I mean, when you put it that way…”

“To better luck,” Graves says, raising his glass to the table, “May we all survive this new era of having Scamander on board.”

“Cheers!”

There’s the chorus of glasses tinkling against each other, the knock of them hitting the table for luck, the swish of chugging them down, and the sound of a couple unaccustomed aurors gasping at the burn of the shot. Because Graves didn’t get them a simple round of Gigglewater. Instead, their glasses had been filled to the brim with quality scotch; liquor of a caliber few of them rarely imbibed.

“Merlin’s balls, boss, what was that?” Mitchell says when she hiccups a thick bloom of smoke. Graves just holds his breath as though taking a drag from a cigarette and lets it out in a slow, blissful blow through his nostrils - looking to all the room like some grand, pleased dragon.

“An Irish scotch, pricey. Smoked in dragon’s flames. Lovely, isn’t it?”

They all blink, because they likely just had a shot far more expensive than any shot had the right to be, and at the thought it's as though they all come to the same collective realization. It is a _strong_ drink they just threw down the hatch like common liquor. Tina wobbles with a slow blink and lets out a gentle “oh”, and things quickly unravel from there.

“Ireland, you said?” Newt asks lightly, “No wonder it was so good. I was almost impressed with America for a second,” he jibes, and the aurors all gape at him.

Silence falls and Graves turns to him slowly then, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, I can show you America’s best if you’re looking for a liquor fight.”

Newt smiles back, and it's not so sheepish now.

“I’m waiting.”

And it’s like Graves just got impersonated all over again, or better said possessed by a booze-thirsty ghost. Aurors blink and gape at both him and Scamander, amazed by their image of purity and innocence, fuck - how they down glass after glass without even looking drunk.

“G-guys,” Tina starts, when they put their sixth glass at their lips and stop to look at her. “Take it easy?” She tries “It’s not a competition?”

“Oh, Goldstein.” Graves shakes his head.

“It kinda is.” Newt says reasonably, his eyes looking glassy.

They down these ones as well, and after the next one everyone stops trying to change their mind. Instead they decide to observe them, silently sipping on their own drinks.

“Scamander,” Graves hiccups and looks Newt in the eye. Surprisingly, the normally shy man maintains the eye-contact, apparently very focused on what Graves has to say.

“Newt,” Graves lets his glass fall onto the table in favor of putting his hand around Newt’s shoulder.

Everyone stills, no one dares to talk, move, or even breathe. Everyone waits.

“Huh?” Newt asks, barely understanding _why Graves is so freaking close_.

“You know, my lips really want to meet yours.”

Someone spits their drink in background, and someone almost gets squeezed out from their table, but both Graves and Newt are too busy staring at each other to notice.

“Then why haven’t you?” Newt asks simply, and it’s like a second gun shot of shock amongst the group. One person even _does_ get squeezed out of the table this time, stumbling out of the booth to wheeze through the burn of the drink that went down the wrong way.

“Newt!” Tina shrills, shocked by her normally shy friend’s sudden ballsy attitude, egging Graves on. Then, a little louder when they both start leaning in, “MR. GRAVES!”

But the auror across the table saves them at the last moment by lunging forward, slipping a menu between their lips just as they were a breath away. Graves growls and Newt lets out a confused little noise, eyes closed, and says against the menu, “Your lips feel rather weird, is it an American thing?”

Graves shoves the menu down and grumbles, “No, it’s a “someone’s gonna be working in wand permits for the rest of the month” kind of thing.”

“I don’t get it,” Newt says, blinking as a large hand winds around to the back of his neck, and now as if Graves has something to prove, he’s leaning in far more domineeringly. Around them, the aurors erupt into a loud chorus of panic again. The auror directly to Graves’ other side is trying to yank him back by the shoulder while another is - drunkenly - trying to charm a napkin into the air between their faces.

“What’s going on?” Newt blinks, baffled by the strange display from the aurors around them. “Is this some American tradition? You all make everything so _complicated-”_

And then Graves has finally zeroed home, his lips seizing Newt’s even as he’s batting away the hand on his shoulder angrily. It’s nothing chaste, either. The first kiss might have had that intention, but the second is Graves proving that Americans don’t kiss like menus. Hot and searing, fingers pulling at the short curls at the back of Newt’s neck, making him whimper into his mouth.

“Oh my god,” Tina laments, head in her hands, “We’re all fired. When he remembers this, he’s going to _kill_ us.”

“Or bone Scamander,” Adams says, the only auror among them not completely shocked or on edge about the situation.

“ADAMS!”

When the pair finally break, it's to heavy breathing and a steamy look that has everyone else at the table uncomfortable. Newt’s lips are far pinker than anyone has ever seen them - flush and somewhat swollen from the intensity of Graves against him. And _Graves’_ lips have an obscene shine to them from when Newt had licked him as they parted.

“ _That’s_ how Americans kiss, Scamander,” Graves says proudly.

“Oh, I see,” Newt says, calmly as though requesting something as innocent as for Graves to pass the salt; nearly clinically, “Do Americans fuck as good as they kiss?”

And all the aurors sink into their seats, wide-eyed and beyond knowing what to do when their boss - _the Director of Magical Security for the United States of America_ \- growls predatorily and says, “Do you want to find out?”

Before things get out of hand and they get to see a full mating process in the middle of a pub - as Newt would put it if he was in his right mind, and not right currently following the dictation of a certain hindbrain between his legs - the aurors actually intervene more seriously this time, motivated to not let the show go on.

Mitchell and Tina pull Newt away, quite forcefully, and apparate on spot, leaving the guys to deal with an angry, drunk and very horny Graves.

They pray under their breath to see everyone in one piece tomorrow as they drag a barely conscious Newt into Goldstein’s flat. The whole apparition thing made him dizzy and he almost passes out two times, but he’s sober enough to grab at Tina’s coat and ask where _his Percy is_.

Tina blinks owlishly at him while Mitchell stifles her laugh.

“You’ll get to see, uh, your Percy, tomorrow, Newt.” Tina softly pushes him onto his bed and covers him with a blanket. “But now, you gotta sleep.”

Newt smiles at her blissfully then and closes his eyes, drifting to sleep almost immediately.

“Hear that, Goldstein?” Mitchell whispers, “ _His_ Percy.”

“Yea, I heard. Speaking of, I hope the guys are having less trouble than I think they are with him.” Tina says thoughtfully, switching the lights off.

But where Newt goes to sleep succinctly, sweetly even, Graves does not. It is an _effort_ to get him out of the bar. Every few minutes, he forgets that Newt is gone and looks for him - asking where that Scamander fella had gotten off to, he owes him a drink and a lesson on American bedding. Making every auror around him flush and stammer even as they grab him by the shoulder and say, “I’m sure you’ll get’em next time, boss.”

“Damn right,” Graves growls, and they all take turns looking at each other - shocked - when Graves isn’t looking their way. They pay the bar tab, which happens to be a bone curdling total, and draw straws to decide who will take Graves home only to realize that… they don’t strictly know where Graves lives in the first place.

“Nu-uh, I ain’t taking that spitting mad man home. It was hard enough getting him out of the bar, can you imagine trying to get him to bed?”

“Newt can,” Adams snarks, making the rest of them groan.

“Mr. Graves, where _do_ you live?”

“No,” is all Graves says.

The aurors blink at him.

“Uh, excuse me, sir?”

“No.”

“That’s not an address, boss.”

“I’m aware,” Graves says.

“But we need to get you home?”

“I made the mistake of giving out my address before and ended up getting kidnapped, imprisoned and impersonated. It won’t be hap-happening again,” Graves says sternly, the effect ruined by his occasional hiccup. “So no.”

“Shit, now what?” Adams grumbles, jumping up and down a little bit in place outside the bar, trying to warm up. “I’m freezing out here, we need to figure this out fast before my balls fall off.”

“Stop talking about your balls, Adams, no one cares,” O'Brien says, glaring.

Adams just pouts at him, miserable.

“I’ll find my own way back,” Graves says simply, as though it were obvious, and turns on heel to leave only to immediately stumble sideways into a light pole, making all the aurors groan.

“We can take him back to the office,” O’Brien suggests to Adams as a more junior auror, too stupid to know when to back off, tries to go and help Graves stand up straight again.

“What, and make him sleep at his desk?”

“There’s a couch in his office, isn’t there?”

“Oh… Yea, right. Okay, let’s do that.”

It turns out to be a tricky matter to get a hold of Graves long enough to apparate him to MACUSA’s apparition point, but they manage it. They hold him at the elbows despite his surly snarling as they lead him up the stairs of the Woolworth Building - all the while trying not to laugh at the way he’s scolding them for being a massive team of cockblockers.

“I’ll dock all your salaries,” he mumbles as the alcohol begins to leave him more woozy than wild. “You little shits.”

“Wow, boss,” Adams remarks, brows raised, “You’re real upset about this.”

“Why do you think I was trying to drink in the first place-” but Graves cuts himself off too late, face angrily flushed and self deprecating, when the boys draw to a halt to look at him.

“What?”

They’ve never seen their boss unwilling to look them in the eye before, it was usually them unable to meet his, but here they were, standing in front of a rather embarrassed looking and drunk Percival Graves.

“I- I- “

“I _knew_ you weren’t that cold, sir!” Adams suddenly cheers, flinging an empathetic arm around Graves’ shoulders as he jokingly knocks Graves’ chin with a fist. “You wanna bone the Magizoologist _for real!_ ”

“No, I-”

“You want to bang him, right?” Adams continues, without noticing that Graves’ face is flushed, but not from embarrassment anymore. “You know, mating? Procreation? Sex-”

Before anyone can react, Graves’ fist painfully connects with Adams’ ribs. The auror yelps and clutches at his stomach.

Graves doesn’t say a word as he makes his way to his office on his own.

“G-guys!” Adams whimpers, his puppy-eyes mode on.

“Nope, Adams,” O’Brien shakes his head disapprovingly ,“You fucking deserved that.”

Then, they apparate, each to their own destinations, leaving a pouting Adams behind.

“I’m sorry!”

* * *

When Newt actually gets into the Woolworth Building the next morning, his clothes are crumpled and he has a headache to end all headaches.

But even so, he perfectly remembers what happened the evening before and can’t help but wonder how the hell he’s supposed to look Director Graves in the eye. He already struggled with holding eye contact enough as it was, let alone after something like _that._ But he can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop thinking about Graves’ offer.

He wants to know...

He’s in front of Graves’ office doors now, smoothing a bit his shirt and attempting to straighten the flyaways from his hair which tended to stick out. He takes a deep breath and finally knocks on the door.

A groan. Newt knocks again.

“Who the _fuck_?” Graves sounds angry and Newt, albeit hesitantly, opens the door just enough to peek inside.

Graves has a cute frown on his sleepy face, his hair falling onto his forehead, and there is a mark on his right cheek left by the pen he probably slept on. He blinks at Newt few times, and Newt just blinks right back at him.

“Oh, Mr. Scamander, come in.” Graves stands up and tries to make himself presentable.

Newt smiles and ducks his head as he takes a seat in front of Graves. He watches with no small amount of awe as Graves easily puts himself back together. A slide of his hand through his hair has it magically gelled to its normal shine. A crisp tug straightens the wrinkles from his suit. But nothing can hide the bags beneath his eyes or the way he squints in the light, obviously suffering a headache much like Newt.

Newt draws a deep breath in to start, but Graves beats him to it.

“I’m so sorry for my behavior,” Graves starts, trying to sound as sincere as possible, “It was unprofessional and unwelcome-”

Newt whips his head at that.

“That definitely wasn’t unwelcome,” He says and blushes at his own boldness.

“Oh,” Graves says dumbly, straightening up from his guilty slouch.

“And actually,” Newt squirms in his seat, raising his eyes from time to time, “I was wondering if you intended to be good on your word about showing me… you know, what we discussed.”

“Show you what, exactly?”

“How Americans f-fuck.”

“E-excuse me?” Graves manages to gasp, grimacing at the audible hitch in his breath.

“Last night you said Americans fuck as good as they kiss,” Newt struggles, hands clenched in his lap as he reaches inside to remain bold. “You never proved it.”

“Are you asking me to prove it, Mr. Scamander?” Graves asks, a sharpness slowly steeling his eyes where once they had been shocked, and Newt can’t help but shiver - excited - beneath that gaze.

“Yes,” Newt says, “You could say I’m calling your bluff,” he teases.

The grin that spreads over Graves’ face is hungry, and Newt can feel his heart thundering in his chest when the man leans closer on his forearms and says, “Is that a challenge, Mr. Scamander?”

“Afraid you can’t meet my British expectations?” Newt replies, bolder now that he knows Graves is interested and it hadn’t all been a drunken fever dream.

“Hardly,” Graves says, “I’m more worried that your prudish British traditions haven’t properly prepared you for what real American fucking is like,” and Newt feels himself flushing scarlet.

“I guess we’ll find out,” Newt says.

Graves grins and leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, and considers him from over top them with a cheerful glint to his eye.

“I suppose we will.”


End file.
